Let Go
by The DayDreaming
Summary: AU "It's freedom, y'know. I can't get enough of it." Alfred and Ivan have many issues, but if there's one thing they're unified on, it's their conviction to keep moving forward. The Brethren, the Demons; they'll never catch them.  drabble  RussiaxAmerica


**Title:** Let Go

**Author:** The DayDreaming

**Ratings/Warnings:** Rated T…for TEEN! There may be theologically sensitive material in this story, and it may offend some readers. No offense is meant, and it only uses loose concepts for words that have been given a specific theological meaning. This story is not meant to be taken seriously, and if you do, you honestly don't get the concept of fanfiction. Also, this is RussiaxAmerica.

**Summary:** _[drabble] AU_ Alfred and Ivan have many issues, but if there's one thing they're unified on, it's their conviction to keep moving forward. The Brethren, the Demons; they'll never catch them.

**A/N:** This was completely random. I'm worried that I'm already getting rusty with my writing. And though I should have worked on my one-shot requests, I couldn't focus on them, and this came out instead. Sorry! Also, sorry if there's mass confusion. It's a drabble. Don't think too much on it.

**This story was inspired by Frou Frou's song, "Let Go." Listen if you want, though the song may not be very applicable.**

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"I don't blame them, y'know."

"Hm?"

Ivan looks over to his companion, considers the other's laid-back posture sprawled across the supine form of a gargoyle, and snorts.

"Whaaaat…?" Alfred whines, though his mock-distress peters out in the middle of the word. The remnants of it linger in the air, only to be brushed away as a pigeon flutters overhead and makes to land on Ivan's shoulder. The bird is pushed aside with a practiced swipe; Ivan can't help thinking that they've really made too much of a habit of coming to this place, if the avian population has taken to using them as living perches.

Looking somewhat affronted, the pigeon coos and lands on the ground, plucking along until it rests at the base of Alfred's gargoyle. It has always been Alfred's gargoyle, ever since they'd come to the infernal look-out, and the boy has taken to calling the snarling stone griffin, Harriet ("It doesn't have balls and a dick, man! It's totally a she!"). Harriet is a patient throne for him, built low to the ground and spread out so that he can lay about with little complaint. Alfred lowers his arm, palm open and beckoning; the pigeon hops on and ascends to the boy's chest, making itself comfortable.

"They will always come if you keep that up, comrade," Ivan mutters, looking on in distaste as he sees others creeping closer from their higher perches.

"Awww, but they're so awesome!"

Ivan snorts again, the sound customary now. He used to not be this way, but—

Well, times have changed. Though, he likes to think that he hasn't so much changed as—adapted. Many often had to when it came to his companion.

The wind hits him coldly, the wet trail that it leaves smeared across his forehead unwelcome. Ivan can taste the rain, billowing in from the south.

"A storm is coming," he intones to the other, tilting his head slightly and peeking to his left, at the dark clouds that halo Alfred's form in the distance.

Alfred shrugs, "Don't know how you can tell, man. Is that what you guys mean when you say I can't 'read the atmosphere?'" He rolls his eyes.

"You're rather pathetic, my friend," Ivan mutters, tapping the stone railing in front of him. "A poor excuse of our kind, in all honesty."

"I swear I'm trying to find the book on it, but that goddamn library is huge! Why do we need all of those bullshit records anyways? And why can't anyone frickin' organize 'em?"

They've had the conversation a thousand times now. Ivan can read the lines in his head, each and every word that the other will say, and his precise response back. Alfred is aware, knows the familiarity and pursues it with ease; he's considerate to bear in mind Ivan's preferences. He does so hate change.

As he makes to reply, the old, easy words falling almost in oil-slick black from his tongue, the wind comes at them again, harder and heavier, whipping the sentence away. The pigeons scatter in a flurry of feathers, the one mounting Alfred's chest smacking the boy's face as it panics and leaves.

Them. They have come.

And from the signs in the sky, humming messages in sweet silence to his bones, Ivan knows that there is more than one faction at work.

Alfred whines and spits out a feather, "What the hell…"

"Perhaps someday we'll find that book for you," Ivan says, eyes hard and trained on the cityscape sprawled below them. It leaves a coating of unease in his throat, the loosing of words not customary to the given topic. Alfred shifts and stands, Harriet left behind with a lingering patch of warmth. He's uneasy as well, sidling to his companion's side and looking out, trying to use his Eyes to see.

A futile effort, but it's good that he keeps trying. Never having learned the Arts hinders him on most things, and often the fact grates on Ivan's nerves. But, it's not Alfred's fault, and he feels what might be a hint of guilt each time he snaps at the boy. Someday, he _will_ acquire the scrolls necessary to teach him his heritage. He has promised.

"Them?" Alfred asks, craning his neck and squinting. He sighs as the sky remains sightless to him, and fishes around in his pocket before withdrawing a battered pair of spectacles. They've needed a new pair for a while now, one of the lenses having been cracked and the metal arms rusting to spindles. But, it's difficult to find Looking glasses in this place, and they won't arrive in a suitable location for a while yet.

Ivan nods, stepping away from the railing and making to tighten his scarf. He can't have it falling off.

"Rain's gonna be a bitch," Alfred mutters, folding the glasses and tucking them away again. He's seen enough.

They linger a few moments longer, admiring the horizon. Ivan can't quite bring himself to tear away his gaze. They'd grown too fond of this city. Despite the cold stone and unsavory civilians below, it is beautiful, with breath-taking sunrises and a view of the ocean. Though the sky right now is split between cornflower blue and gunmetal, it holds his attention and he wishes that he could stay to watch the squall.

Alfred sighs and pats Harriet's hard flank before smiling at him, "I still don't blame 'em."

"What do you mean?" Ivan asks, though he has a vague idea of the answer. He doesn't want to think of them. Any of them. Right now is enough, with the world and the sky merging into one, and Alfred right beside him. As it should be.

"Arthur and Francis. Those Demons don't like losing anything, do they?"

Ivan nods mutely and adjusts his scarf one more time. He doesn't like hearing their names. Names suggested familiarity, something that Alfred has in spades. Because he was stolen. _Stolen_. No two of those cretins were and are bolder than Arthur and Francis.

But, perhaps Ivan can't say that he's much different.

"It's just…Now that I have it, I never want to let it go."

"What?" Ivan zones in on the conversation again. Has he missed something?

Alfred laughs. He knows what Ivan thinks about; it amuses him, and for that, Ivan is grateful. It means that Alfred hasn't been completely poisoned by the two scoundrels; if he can find humor in Ivan's malignancy then he certainly isn't concerned by it. It also means that he hasn't been completely converted by their Brethren, either.

Ivan shudders at the thought of them. Their Kin. They have infiltrated the city as well, searching for their wayward Brothers-in-Arms and are most likely confronting the Demons.

They must run if they are to escape the opposing sides.

Sensing his thoughts (perhaps Alfred's quandary with the atmosphere has some hope yet), his companion hops onto the railing, smiling and laughing. He always gets so giddy in the preparations.

Ivan can share his enthusiasm, the feelings of elation, euphoria condensed into a tiny point in his chest waiting to explode, almost too much to contain. He joins his companion, and Alfred easily grabs his hand. A failsafe, in case Ivan is struck with an arresting attack, as had happened recently. He hasn't quite recovered yet from their last run-in with Arthur. His back aches to think of it.

"It's freedom, y'know," Alfred finally lets out. It's perhaps his favorite word, Ivan thinks. "I can't get enough of it. I'll never let go. I'll die before I submit to them, to anyone, ever again."

And Ivan understands.

Without hesitation, Alfred jumps and he follows, releasing that pin-point of euphoria and allowing it to bloom, spreading outwards and coalescing behind him. The chrome yellow of his Wings curls around him, holding still in anticipation of Alfred's release.

The other tightens his grip before letting go, drifting away as blue bands sprout from his shoulders, molding themselves into a loose mockery of birds' wings. They are fluid and watery, much like his own, their transparency revealing their incomplete nature.

The Humans' misconceptions on Angels are almost unbearable; perfect, loyal beings indeed.

Someday, though, Ivan thinks, someday they'll achieve completion. He's promised. To himself, and to Alfred. They've defied propriety and sought a world beyond convention; surely they can continue on. They'll find a way.

He unfolds his Wings, ethereal joints creaking at the strain. Will they seize? He's still falling, but he finds that after a second the appendages stabilize; he soars, catching an updraft and riding it smoothly, as he'd done thousands of times before. He heads to the East, their next destination in the seemingly endless search.

Alfred follows easily, shooting past him in his exuberance and sailing into the endless expanse of sky. They'll beat the storm, and the Demons, and the Brethren.

They have to.

Freedom, as Alfred says, is hard to let go of.**  
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I. Don't. Know.

I'm sorry guys. This just came out of no where. I'm also sorry if you're confused. I understand most of the concepts presented in the story, while you guys are left in the dark. This was mostly an exercise to see how crappy my writing has gotten since my last TDDOL chapter. My writing ability goes quickly, sad to say, and I'm nervous that my writing has become sub-par. Sorry!

This story is in no way meant to offend anyone's theological beliefs! It's just a concept. Please don't flame me.

Well, I don't know if anything will come of this. It was fun, and the story idea is incredibly tempting. Maybe I'll continue to write little drabbles for this universe when the fancy strikes me. I dunno.

And yeah. Still working. On...stuff. All sorts of things are converging on my time right now, and I'm not good with time management. Consider this story dedicated to those two poor people waiting for their one-shot requests to be filled. Sorry, guys.


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